Читать книгу Smote - James Kimbrell - Страница 11

Free Checking!

Desire for the good deal, the hot need

to look slick, wordless advertisement

for the invisible product, I release you

like the dumpster behind the cafeteria

releases these long, festering rivers of milk.

Fear of death, fear of narrow spaces, love

of the wine-red mole that punctuates

the transaction-inspiring cleavage of Jill,

my credit union teller, I release you like

the scared shitless man releases the tiny

parachute. The name “James Kimbrell”

which I share (says Jill) with thirty-eight people

in Florida alone, the subsequent deflation

of our hero groomed by the goddess,

sped by the wind, loved by his mutt, envy

of his entire dreamed-up Mediterranean—

I release you like the crank-addled truck driver

releases his cargo at the midnight dock

until the warehouse is one in a trail

of crumbs, little light left on behind him.